


Plague Times

by potterandpromises



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, COVID-19, Christmas Isn't Canon, Discussion of Violence and Self-Harm, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Guns, Home Improvement, Miscommunication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Quarantine to Lovers, Self-Loathing, Some Actual Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterandpromises/pseuds/potterandpromises
Summary: The war is over.The pandemic is just beginning.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

Lucy downs a shot of vodka, her ration. It’s the amount she allows herself as a sleep aid, no more and only when needed. A rule she created years ago, within weeks of Rufus’ death. Anything else must be consumed in a social setting. Or at least with other people— meaning Flynn, mostly. But he’s not here, because she left him. 

One mouth, almost exactly. Perhaps current events lead the dates to be emphasized. December 6th though January 4th they lived together in his new and decrepit ex-safe house, sold to him for one dollar by the United States Government after the war’s supposed end. That decision, as Lucy understands it, was half laziness, half embarrassment. An excellent outcome, and she barely had to threaten anybody.

The war’s end, she corrects. Denise kept her updated, they were very careful to clean up all the pieces this time. It’s better if she doesn’t dwell on the unlikely, even if that’s been her life, even though the victory was abrupt, like so much death.

Lucy slumps to the floor and looks out at her city, afterglow already vanished. She has plenty of money, having been well compensated for helping to save the world. And she’s healthy, at least physically. No more weekly lunches with Rufus and Jiya, or monthly reunions with everyone, and she’s dreading the day she has to go to a grocery store, but that’s basically it. Her life will hardly change. She’ll be just fine.

So why does she want her to skin open up? Why, after being crushed with responsibility for the timeline, for the past and the present and fate, is boredom and alone time so painful?

There was so much unbridled opportunity. The war was over, she was free. She could have traveled— _they_ could have traveled— to Croatia, maybe. Or not, she doesn’t know if he’d want to, or if he could board a commercial airplane for that matter. But even short walks would have been better, more productive then this apartment or that house.

The phone rings, she flinches.

It’s Flynn and it’s... not too late. She mutes it. He’ll call back if it’s important. Lucy stands, walks to her tiny kitchen, and runs cold water over the inside of her wrists.

Okay, it’s okay. Fear isn’t real. And there’s no point to living in the past.

But she thinks of the trips they did take in that time, the weekly drives back to the Bay Area so Denise and her bosses could check up on him in person. it was 10 hours in the rental car for him to be interrogated and her to go grocery shopping, and yet she misses it, or maybe just him.

That’ll end, for awhile. Long enough and they may decide to stop the in-person check-ins all together. A silver lining.

Her phone dings. She shuts the water off.

_Can we talk?_

He’s okay right? They talked just yesterday. She calls back, he picks up immediately. "Hey, what's up?" It sounds horribly strained, false, stupid. She squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. Silence. “Flynn, is something wrong?”

“No, no.” He sounds distracted. “Mostly I just wanted to— to talk and check in again. How are you doing?”

“I um, you know.” Lucy sits down on the kitchen floor, a novel place. “It’s only going to get worse from here, right? But it's not really going to affect me that much. I know I’ll be okay.” For whatever reason, she doesn’t feel it or entirely believe it, but it’s a reasonable assumption. “How are things with you?”

“Same as yesterday.” Apparently, he’s actually been _less_ anxious. She might not have believed it if, when they video chatted, he hadn’t been so perplexed himself. He also hasn’t mentioned the near nightly gunshots recently, which probably means nothing’s changed, but he looked reasonably well-rested, a major improvement with her leaving.

“Oh, did I tell you how packed the grocery store was?”

"No, but I can image. I’ve been putting it off.” There probably isn’t enough food in her apartment to wait out the panic buyers, but she’ll try. Flynn, in all his experience with disasters, doesn’t think deliveries will stop.

“Don’t make it a habit. You should have a couple weeks worth of food, in case of a particularly bad outbreak or violent protesters.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, at least without screaming. Instead, she asks how the renovations are going.

Wisely, he chooses not to call her out. “I went to the hardware store after our conversation yesterday and brought supplies for the projects that shouldn’t wait.” 

“You should send pictures,” she hears herself say.

“It really doesn’t look very different since you lived here.” In her mind, there’s more color. “Just less leaky.”

“Hey—” 

“Look—”

A pause. Lucy images him smiling. She cannot be proven wrong. “You first,” Flynn says.

It takes her a moment to remember, and she’s plunged back into unhappiness. But he’s helpful, and she asks the question. “Do you ever miss the violence?”

Were it about his history, it’d be a thoughtless question. He spent his 20s and 30s finding causes and throwing himself into them. Even after Iris was born he couldn’t stay away. A regret he told her of during a night of sociable drinking. But now? Is it possible for Garcia Flynn to be only tired?

“The more time passes, yes,” he says slowly. “Isolation makes it worse,” Lucy nods to herself, “and of course there isn’t anyone else to... take it out on.”

She’s sitting there, mind at first blank, on the floor during the blue hour, realizing.

Prison.

Can people get stabbed in solitary?

“Lucy?”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Her throat is tight. His story was getting shanked at breakfast by Rittenhouse. Really, is there any way he didn’t lie about it? She was so caught up in herself and the task at hand, she never questioned it. Guilt washes over her.

"Don't worry," he says in a bitter, dry tone. "Not many armies would take me. I’m too old and a liability."

She doesn’t know how to respond, tries to think of how to end the conversation. The vodka is settling in, at least. “Lucy?” 

His voice is different on her name, nervous. “I’m listening.”

“Doing things with your hands helps," he offers, she doesn’t want it. She will, perhaps, hopefully. “Lucy, I know you had— _have_ good reasons for moving out and I don’t want to assume I know everything about you— your life, again. But the world has changed and I just wonder— I just want you to think about what the best thing is.”

He was this way with her before, years ago when he told her all he knew of their future. The words sink in slowly, then altogether. “Flynn, are you asking me to move in with you?” 

“Well, yes. And I understand if it isn’t what you want, now or ever,” it’s like he stumbles on his own breath, “just know you’re always welcome with me.”

Lucy wants to say yes, and admits to herself that she has felled.

But tomorrow and all following days will look like today— or worse, it can always get worse— and something needs to change. She’ll think about it, she decides, and give an answer when she’s slept and completely sober.

But she hears herself say: “Okay.”

“’Okay’ you _do_ want to move back in with me?”

Lucy closes her eyes and feels herself smile, a little ruefully. In the end, she’d rather be with him. “Yes, I want to move back in with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the timeline of Flynn's solitary confinement from six mouths to six weeks plus however long is between The War to End All Wars and Hollywoodland, which gets us closer to a more logical and survivable timeline. It also places the events of season 2 in 2017, making the Wyjess baby (Lizzie) three years old.

To Lucy, the coming weekend was, and still is, a completely appropriate time frame for moving considering the circumstances. Flynn adamantly disagreed, saying the city could close before then, it isn't worth taking any risks, and having only had his job as a translator for a few weeks, that he couldn't get off work. With the way he talks about it and the fact he's not broke, she's surprised he's not taken the opportunity to give the middle finger to both his handlers and employers. Naturally, (and she applauds his sense of responsibility) the solution was to get a good night's sleep, pack up everything she owns and drive though the night. 

She's not sure why she agreed, the alcohol or promise of novelty. Either way, it's 10.P.M. and everything she owns— save for some souvenirs from missions, which she left at the house to began with— is stacked up in her living room.

The coffee, waiting in her insulated travel mug, calls to her. She distracts herself by reading the newest texts in the group chat. Mason's shared the latest Covid news, less then an hour ago, and Jess wrote about how upset Lizzie is suddenly not being allowed to go anywhere again. She can't even play outside. Lucy's heart aches for her, but she does not respond. There isn't anything to say, especially though text. Providing comfort doesn't come as easily as it used to.

At his knock, she nearly drops her phone, though it isn't even particularly loud. She opens the door and he's visibility relieved. They do not hug, but they take each other in. She had... forgotten certain details of his character. She wasn't expecting to appreciate his face this much, or the bomber jacket over a dark red turtleneck.

"Shell we?" he asks, and she steps aside, letting him into her apartment. He surveys it nearly as intensely as he did her, but they don't waste time and begin moving her things into Flynn's SUV, thankfully avoiding unwanted attention. The task has a strange energy to it. She's tired— she's always tired, but it's the most alive she's felt in weeks, possibly months.

Holding the last of it, with Flynn at her back, she takes a probable last look at her apartment (she has not yet informed the landlord of her moving, maybe the other place will burn down next week, who knows.) She won't miss this place, and she's not exactly looking forward to his house, either, but she wouldn't be happy anywhere. Lucy's glad she never got around to buying a car, at least. A dark, five hour drive is better with him then without, especially given her track record.

"I can drive." It's the least she can do.

"Not unless you learned how to drive manual transmission in the last couple months."

She stops and, illuminated by a street lamp, narrows her eyes at him. "Where did you even _find_ a stick shift?"

He smirks, happier then is reasonable. "Stole a time machine." 

Despite herself, she laughs. It's been an eternity since she's felt airy or saw him this playful.

They get into the car and, after she reads the initial directions to him, fall into a easy silence. She allows herself a few sips of coffee and watches the world out the window. This will be the last time she sees her city for awhile. She could get a job and move away. Although she's not planning on looking for one now, since she doesn't actually have to work, and even if she was, it doesn't look likely with the state of the economy. Or she could be dead in a week. Coronavirus has a long incubation time, right? No, she shouldn't think like that, she was happy.

"The city lights,” she starts, seeking a distraction. “It was hard to sleep the first couple nights." He doesn't reply. It occurs to her that he drives in populated areas maybe once a week. She waits until outside is so much darker before speaking again.

Her mind's wondered back to the car. "Seriously, where did you get this thing? It looks like it was manufactured in the first half of my childhood.”

"Honestly?" He has that look on his face, the one where he's about to say something she won't like. He stole it, didn't he? Dread fills her stomach. "It was on the side of the road. There was a sign. "

She watches him for a minute, to see if there's any chance he's joking, and buries her face in her palm. "Why?"

"I needed a car and hate salesmen?" 

"And I'm sure it will be very convenient and completely worthwhile when it brakes down in the middle of California's outback."

Slightly annoyed, he starts to say something and changes course. "Don't you trust my judgement?"

"I trust you, you just don't always have the best judgement."

He looks at her a little too long. She almost has to remind him to watch the road.

Lucy reaches into the backseat, grabs the snack bag and ravenously consumes a couple handfuls of trail mix. Eating fast being a lingering habit from her time travel days where, ironically, time was a finite resource.

After she's finished, she offers the music on her phone as a peace offering, to herself as much as to him.

"I Spy," he instead declares. She raises an eyebrow... but motions him to continue. At the very least, it will help keep him awake. "I spy... something green."

"A road sign." It's a complete guess, she wasn't paying attention to anything outside. 

He nods once. "Your turn." 

She looks around, at the advance of darkness in all directions. Highways at night always remind her of the accident, of complete fear and the inability to breath. Although It is easier now then it used to be. What would life be like if it never happened? Would she have been able to follow though with it? And when the band fell apart, would her mother have pulled her back in, maybe thought it a good time to indoctrinate her? It's hard to imagine her life or the world would be better for it, in any case. Then again, she's just filling a role for history, and fate always manages to find someone else when it cares enough. Flynn clears his throat.

Her eyes find him. Taxes 1936 is a favorite trip, a comfort memory. "I spy something red."

"The taillights on that car." 

"No, your sweater." 

He scoffs. "You can't possibly be able to tell the color in this light." She chuckles. "Besides, it kind of defeats the point of the game if you tell me after one try."

"You lost the game." She smiles to herself.

-

Flynn breaks the silence held since the gas station. "Something's bothering you." It's not a question.

She watches the other cars instead of him. "It was a long time ago, I don't want to drag it up."

"You're a historian." She looks. There's a slight shift in his demeanor, a tension in the set of his shoulders.

"It's a personal question." She looks at him for permission, and he grants it with a nod. She knew he would. "What happened when you were hurt in prison?"

He slumps heavily into his seat and, despite not taking his eyes off the road, his mental disarray is transparent. This is not the question he expected, or feared.

After a long consideration, he starts, carefully: "I told you at the time. I know you haven't forgotten." His tongue darts out, catching Lucy's eye in the half-light. "Why are you asking about it now?"

"Our conversation yesterday." The pit of her stomach is a chasm. "You don't have to tell me; and I'm not judging you."

"You think— okay." He rubs his face, exhausted. She's starting to regret this. "I didn't stab myself. But I'll tell you the full story."

"Solitary confinement wasn't 24 hours a day. They... I was allowed an hour of sunlight. A legal requirement I assume. Made all the difference." He laughs without humor. "And when I was being escorted to that dog pen was the most convenient time to try to kill me. Of course we both know how that ended."

It's that nearly numb, vague sadness that causes her tendency to stare at nothing in particular. She can feel him watching, waiting for a reaction. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"It's not like it was actually your fault."

"Still." She's sorry for not fighting it more; she's sorry for bringing it up now and ever and not sooner after it happened. And for a lifetime of rarely ever thinking about the prison system. Are the conditions Benjamin Cahill faces anywhere near as bad? probably not. But it's best to avoid thinking about people and things that won't come back and don't deserve to.

"As far as killing myself," he circles back, surprising her, "I had a lot of time to think. I realised defeating Rittenhouse had been too easy. Our alliance couldn't have been over." His remarkable fortitude for hope is something she'll never fully understand. Did another, better version of her inspire it? Or is it a long-held, practiced attitude? Maybe she'll ask him someday. After all, the thing they have now is time.

"Do you believe it?" He looks at her, she looks at the road. It should really be the other way around. "That Rittenhouse is completely destroyed, that no one important fell though the cracks?"

"I think that with the existence of time travel, nothing is ever completely gone." The way he says it, she realizes; it's a hope for him still, isn't it? that his family can be saved. She gave up on Amy clawing and screaming, but she gave up nonetheless. The thought of someone stealing either time machine or building a new one is only horrifying. "My turn," he interrupts, "why did you think I hurt myself?"

She studies him for a long moment. Something about the way he asked the question bothers her. "I couldn't think of how else it happened. It was never explained."

"Oh."

"And I guess, when life is that bad, why not?" Her fingernails dig into skin that should be scarred. She could never bring herself to reopen it, even when she hit the walls until her knuckles bled, shouted until she couldn't. Her mother's voice that first morning, apologising for how rough she _had_ to be, when Lucy was too drugged to fight, to even pull away.

"Lucy?" Her eyes sting, Flynn's glancing rapidly between her and the road, too concerned. She straightens against her seat, hyper aware of the small space, her nausea. "I'm fine. I Just— there's just a lot going on and nothing I can do to fix it." She opens her window despite the cold, and breaths fresh air until her face is numb.

She re-warms her face, and they're silent awhile.

He places a hand on her knee, gentle and solid. She stares at it, a little helplessly. "Be gentle with yourself, Lucy."

-

Lassen County is like the edge of the world. It's not a bad place to be, she reminds herself.

It's quiet enough to strike her, and she happens to glance at a beautiful sky. But 3.A.M. after a long drive, waiting in the cold for Flynn to make sure no one's bugged the place while he was away, doesn't inspire positive thoughts. They haul her possessions to her room and exchange goodnights. She toes her shoes off, and crawls into bed. Half-asleep, she looks around the room. If he's touched it, she can't tell. She probably made this bed the morning she left. A few minutes of incoherent pondering, and she sleeps.

-

"Lucy." She yanks her foot away, fear seizing her. "It's okay, it's just me."

Curtains drawn, eyes wide, it takes a moment to find him, kneeling at the end of her bed. "You should have knocked."

"I did. Twice."

"Oh." She pulls herself up halfway against the pillows. "What time is it?" 

"5:30 or so. In the evening," he adds, sitting on the edge of the bed. She rubs her face. "Were you asleep this entire time?"

"Most of it." She woke up several hours ago, scrolled her phone, and upon finding no reason to get out of bed, went back to sleep.

"Are you ill?" His fingers find hers and carefully attempt to remove them from her eyes.

She rolls over, facing away. "I'm—" She sighs. "I was catching up on lost sleep. You should try it." 

He hums in acknowledgement. "I was just about to heat something up, why don't we go eat dinner together?"

She considers, stretches like a cat, and really looks at him. He's smiling at her. "Or you could get some sleep, here, now."

"You want me to sleep with you?" Is he blushing? He is, isn't he? Or maybe it's just her. Either way, he's certainly grinning like a fool and that's almost a job well done. She holds out a hand and he takes it, dumbfounded as ever, and tugs, which does absolutely nothing to move him. "You should eat something."

That would require getting out of bed, breaking the moment, and energy.

"Goodnight." She shifts onto her side again, demonstrating her finality. Hopefully he'll stay, or leave and come back if he isn't ready. Or not, as long as he gets some rest.

Blissful, she dozes off, and someone grabs her from behind. She make an appropriate sound and he pulls away like she's burned him. "I'm sorry. I didn't— I wasn't thinking. I'll—" He moves to leave.

"No, it's..." Despite her 12 hours of sleep, exhaustion weights her down all at once. "You just surprised me is all. I want you to stay."

Guilt lines his face. But with hesitation, he listens to her. He usually does. And she can feel his unease in the way he eventually lies down, over the covers, but it's better then leaving him to over think alone.

"Goodnight, Lucy."


End file.
